


do you think there's someone else for you under the sun?

by aceofdiamonds



Series: even if the skies get dark // harry and george [6]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:15:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23686768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceofdiamonds/pseuds/aceofdiamonds
Summary: “I only died the once,” Harry says wryly. “Came close a few other times but I’m sure you did too,” and George thinks ofi thought of you when i diedand his heart feels heavy in his chest. Harry looks at him for a long moment and says, “I take it you want me to tell you everything.”harry and george in the first 72 hours or so following the end of the war
Relationships: Harry Potter/George Weasley
Series: even if the skies get dark // harry and george [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/962976
Comments: 32
Kudos: 423





	do you think there's someone else for you under the sun?

**Author's Note:**

> for _some_ reason my mind is all over the place atm but i finally finished this. they both stay inside for the whole time but i promise this was started months ago and not me putting them into my current situation, be _lieve_ me, that thought has crossed my mind enough times. it’s sadder than i wanted it be but anything else felt forced and unrealistic and anyway, it still feels lighter than it probably should?
> 
> the next part will be happier!
> 
> title is from anyway by air traffic controller 

  
  


They stay at Hogwarts overnight, half scared to leave in case the war is only over within these battered walls. The first 24 hours are a slow blur of mourning the dead, of celebrating the living, and of bandaging their beloved castle.

At the end of that first day, people hesitantly begin to disperse, Flooing across the country, no longer looking over their shoulder for Death Eaters and Snatchers.

George finds Harry in the great hall, Ron and Hermione by his side. He’s covered in blood, arm in a sling but he’s alive, and that’s enough. 

He watches the three of them leave because as much as he knows and as close as he is, George knows he’s never going to break into that golden trio. 

So he leaves them to it, slings his arm around Charlie’s neck, and asks how he can help. 

  
  


.

  
  


Following on from their conversation the previous day, Harry thanks Mrs Weasley for the offer to come back to the Burrow with the rest of the family but says he’s going to George and Fred’s flat for a few days, please, he needs it. 

“Mum, don’t,” George says softly, stepping in and hugging her when she opens her mouth to say something well-meaning but redundant. “He just needs some time, okay?”

“And why can’t that be at the Burrow?” she tries once more, desperate to have everyone under one room, to truly believe they all made it. “He can’t be alone right now, George.”

“He’ll have me,” he says, stepping back, catching Harry’s eye, almost time to go. “And Fred.”

“Are you sure you can handle —“

And George remembers she doesn’t know the whole story yet — she doesn’t know that George was the one Harry came to about Sirius, the nights in the Burrow where they talked and talked, spilling their secrets between them, the way Harry had sagged against him the night Dumbledore died. He’s got experience with this. They’ll get through it. 

“I’ll come over soon, Mum. Love you,” because, hey, life is short and no one ever says it enough.

  
  


.

  
  


The flat is dusty and cold when the three of them apparate into the living room. With Fred and George living at Muriel’s for the past few weeks, the flat has hung in a state of ongoing war - there are plans from the order scattered across the table, tangible wards hanging around the boundaries, and a collection of Muggle takeaway boxes because how could they possibly cook during those long and unpredictable hours.

Fred swears quietly, takes a step forward, and stands on an abandoned Wheezes product - it squeaks and deflates and George forgets the last time he made something that wasn’t a shield product.

George reaches out and takes Harry’s hand. They haven’t held hands much, if at all; they never had a chance to be a couple outwith their inner circle, outwith the burrow and various Hogwarts cupboards. George likes the feel of Harry’s hand in his own, brushes his thumb over Harry’s knuckles, centres them in the middle of the room. 

When Harry takes in a breath Fred and George both turn to look at him -- this gets a wry smile from Harry. “Listen, Fred -- I --.”

But Fred has already glanced at George, has already had a silent conversation through a split second look, and he shakes his head. “Harry, don’t worry. I’m just picking up a few things and then heading over to Mum’s. No, you’re not kicking me out my own flat -- shut up.” And Harry shuts his mouth, settles for an apologetic grimace. 

He’s gone in minutes, whirling around the flat as he grabs clothes and somehow manages to give the room a quick clean as he does it. 

George stands in the middle of the room and holds Harry’s hand.

  
  


.

  
  


It’s quiet after Fred leaves, the quietest George has felt it since weeks and weeks before the battle, and he takes a moment to breathe in deeply, feels Harry do the same. 

  
  


.

  
  


“Thanks for letting me stay here,” Harry says, dropping onto the couch and tilting his head back. “You’ll be pleased to hear I’m not Undesirable Number One anymore so you’re not hiding a fugitive.”

George snorts. “After yesterday you’re going to get away with whatever you want for the rest of your life.”

“No change there,” Harry says. He yawns, looks surprised by it. “I didn’t think I was going to be able to sleep but I’m suddenly -” another yawn, George copying him, “-- exhausted and it’s only three.”

As if time matters when they’ve emerged from the other end of the war and they can begin to move back to their old lives, when George hasn’t seen Harry for almost a year, never one hundred percent sure he was alive. As if they can be dictated by clocks and watches.

He holds out his hand, waits for Harry to get to his feet. Everything feels too quiet, the air around them thick, and George just wants to lie down. “Come on. We’re going to bed.”

“Y’know, I don’t think I’m up for --” 

“You’ve got blood and fuck knows what else on you, Harry. It’s not doing anything for me.” George gently pushes Harry onto the bed, pulling off their shoes, their tops, their jeans. He slides under the duvet, pulling Harry with him. “Go to sleep.”

  
  


.

  
  
  


He thought it would be harder for Harry to fall asleep. Even before the worst of this, when they had their stolen summer hiding in George’s old room at the burrow, Harry would be restless in his sleep. He would fidget and twist in the sheets, his body running hot and anxious beside George, and all George could do was kiss his forehead, brush the length of his body with his hand, and make him feel safe. 

But George wakes up a few hours later, dying of thirst, and when he glances over at Harry there’s an eerie sense of calm emanating from him. Maybe saving the world takes it out of you. 

He drinks his water quickly in the kitchen, his thirst rolling back into exhaustion, and crawls back into bed. Careful, mindful of the year Harry has had, he drapes an arm over Harry’s waist, burrows his face in his neck, and cries, quiet as can be. 

  
  


.

  
  


George had never been a particularly romantic kid, how many are, but there had been times when he was younger that his mind would flicker into the future and he would wonder how he would find someone to love like his dad loves his mum. He would wonder if it’s easy, if you know straightaway or if it sneaks up on you, if you get multiple tries with different people. 

Now he lies here in the dark as his boyfriend sleeps off a killing curse and he wonders what nine year old George would think of this, of a scenario where he fell in love with a boy the country coveted and of months and months of pressing his ear to the ground for any hint that said boy was still alive. 

Now he knows to tell that kid in the past that yes, you’ll know when you love someone, and that sometimes the most romantic thing you can do is to be there for someone, even from miles apart, and that hope and love are never not enough. 

  
  


.

  
  


George cries for a childhood lost and for the way his heart continues to ache and for the sheer fucking relief that somehow they’re alive. He falls asleep, exhausted and eyes sore, and feels Harry’s fingers fold around his own, still dead to the world. 

  
  


.

  
  
  


In the morning, Harry stumbles into the kitchen hours after George, sleepy and shirtless, a hand pushing through his hair. He blinks at George, orienting himself, and then drops into a seat at the kitchen table.

George sits a glass of water and a plate of toast in front of Harry and then falls back against the worktop, gesturing for him to drink and to eat. 

Instead Harry scratches at the stubble around his chin, frowning at the texture, and George makes a decision. 

“Harry - c’mere.” He gestures for Harry to sit on the worktop, moves between his legs. Harry frowns again, goes to reach for him, to pull him in, but George kisses his forehead and then leans back, picking up the scissors from the worktop. “Relax,” he says. “I’m not going to cut your ear off just so we can match.”

“Then what --” and he stops when George cards a hand through his hair, cuts. Harry’s hair is messy, it always has been, but this is too long, it’s matted in places, it’s been three days and Merlin knows what sort of stuff is still in it. So George cuts and he tidies and as he does so he says quietly, “Did you sleep alright?”

“The best in months,” he replies, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “Maybe it’s you."

George hums, focuses on the hair around Harry’s left ear. “Or it’s the weight of the war off your shoulders,” he suggests. 

Harry shrugs, winces an apology at jostling the scissors. “Either one. What about you?”

“Wait a second,” George murmurs, as he  _ accio _ s a razor and, holding Harry’s chin steady, he carefully takes away the light stubble that has gathered. He concentrates on not spilling any blood before he lies, “Yeah. Good. Don’t you think it feels quiet?” and he feels Harry’s hum of agreement where his fingers are cradling his throat. “Okay, that’s you.” 

Harry looks seventeen again, always too young for everything he’s been through. He touches his chin, smooth, manages a smile. “Thanks, George.” 

  
  


.

  
  


The rest of the day gapes open wide and empty once Harry chews down the toast and finishes three glasses of water. George doesn’t know what they suggest they do - do they leave the flat? Into a Diagon Alley that is still boarded up as people celebrate and grieve with their families? Or into Muggle London, where there are shops and parks and the indescribable feeling of being surrounded by oblivious people? Or do they stay here and approach the subjects that have spanned their minds for the past year, including how they have never been in a relationship that hasn’t been overshadowed by a civil war?

  
  


.

  
  


What happens is this: Harry goes for a long shower while George gives the flat a more thorough clean, making sure all Order plans are tidied away, whisking away any reminder of the war, because he’s only nineteen and he has no idea if it’s better to confront things head on or hide things away until it’s time, and somehow you must know if it’s time. 

He’s only nineteen and he has no idea how to handle this. 

  
  


.

  
  


But Harry comes out of the bedroom, a pair of George’s trackies and one of his t-shirts on, and looking like a different person from an hour ago. George looks up from the pile of books he’s stacking, waits, and then Harry smiles and George floods with warmth. It’s not going to be easy, he knows this, but they’re going to be  _ fine _ . 

Abandoning the books he joins Harry on the couch, reaching out and pulling him into his lap. His hand slides across Harry’s legs, hugging him around the waist; he tilts his head up, and Harry listens, moves in, and yes they had a couple of kisses in the Great Hall in the immediate aftermath, but those were desperate, delirious, thank Merlin you’re alive kisses, and this is slow, languid, overwhelming in the way they remember each other. Harry’s fingers are in George’s hair, his skin hot where George has pushed his t-shirt up, and it feels like hours and hours later when Harry lifts his mouth from George’s neck and he drops to rest on George’s shoulder.

“I missed you,” he says, voice quiet. “I missed you every day.” 

When the lynx had interrupted Bill’s wedding and everyone had scattered, George’s first thought had been to find Harry, his second to make sure he got away safe, his third to look after himself and his family. He had caught Harry’s eye across the marquee, the terrified expression on the wrong freckled face, and then the three of them were gone, and George had sprung into action, helping relatives across the floor and into the protected house before the Death Eaters descended.

He had been in a daze the first few days -- yes he knew Harry would be leaving at some point but they were going to have a big goodbye, he was going to be prepared, and then he was gone and he could be dead for all anyone knew and George is here with Fred and their Shield Hats and that thrum in his chest that he could never help enough, could never do enough to prevent harm. 

When he was younger his mum always said he was the gentler of the two, the one with the heart who felt so much, and suddenly he found himself in a time where he had to move past everything his heart was telling him and focusing on what he could do in the here and now. 

But Harry is right, everyday he sold the hats and the capes and then he gave them away for free, all while operating as many missions with Fred as possible, and right alongside it, he missed Harry so much he could barely sleep. 

“I knew they would announce if you were dead,” he says now, sorry to shatter the quiet peace that had followed the kiss. “So that was my one piece of twisted hope.”

“I only died the once,” Harry says wryly. “Came close a few other times but I’m sure you did too,” and George thinks of _ i thought of you when i died  _ and his heart feels heavy in his chest. Harry looks at him for a long moment and says, “I take it you want me to tell you everything.”

And George nods, his fingers tapping on Harry’s hip, beling his need to know. “If you think you can.” 

“I haven’t had a chance to actually think about everything we did, we were always recovering from one thing and then moving on to the next so I apologise if I miss anything out but this is it, George. This is everything I have.” He says this like George is going to regret asking, that there’s not going to be a them once Harry has bared his soul. He sighs, kisses George once more, and then maneuvers them so they’re lying down, his head on George’s chest. “Stop me if you have questions.”

  
  


.

  
  
  


So Harry tells George everything. 

He lies on the couch as outside rain thunders and lightning flashes, one of those summer thunderstorms that everyone says clears the air, and he stretches away back to the night his parents were murdered and Voldemort marked him as his equal. He talks about prophecies and souls and how he really was the chosen one. He tells George about Snape and about his mum and about walking into the forest to die. At that part in the story he finds George’s hand and presses it against his chest, George feeling the heartbeat under his palm, and he closes his eyes and thinks of all he could have lost.

In return, Geoge fills in all the blanks of the past nine months -- all the raids, the injuries, the panicked and grateful faces of Muggleborns as they were apparated away to the continent. He tells Harry about the last day in the joke shop, where the shelves remained stuffed with pranks and they were giving away shield capes for free, watching people hurry home in the swirling mist. 

They trade stories back and forth, George taking over when Harry reaches a part he can’t swallow. George talks about Potterwatch and the Order and how none of them ever thought about giving up. He talks about being cut off from the world at Muriel’s and of waking up each day terrified that would be the day he heard of Harry’s death and the thought of having to continue the fight without him. He tells Harry about a mission he went on with Parvati Patil which ended in an ambush and a dozen broken bones and he’s surprised to find he almost misses the adrenaline.

The sky is dark when Harry tells him about waking up in King’s Cross with Dumbledore, how he had the choice to come back or go on, and his voice cracks, disappears, when he mentions seeing his parents so soon before the offer of spending eternity with them. 

And then he coughs, “So I came back, Narcissa Malfoy lied and said I was dead, and, well, you know the rest,” is how he ends this tale of how his seven years in the wizarding world have gone. 

“I feel like it’s time to start living and I’m worried I won’t know how to do it without this fucking prophecy hanging over me,” he sighs, curling into George’s side.

  
  


.

  
  
  


When George had kissed Harry that first time outside of the Gryffindor common room, it was something he had been building up to for a while. He had always got on with Harry, finding him funny and kind and so good at Quidditch, but around about the middle of his sixth year he’d started to see him in a new light, one where he wanted to spend time with Harry alone, where he wanted to be the one to make him laugh, to comfort him, to ask him to the Yule Ball. But he was Ron’s friend, and there are rules, so he had met other boys and had grinned at them and kissed them and made them laugh but out of the corner of his eye he had seen Harry grow taller and braver and when they came back the summer after Grimmauld Place, George decided that Harry could make his own decisions outwith Ron, so he was going to stop holding back. 

And so he had kissed him, when Quidditch had been grabbed from them and things had been looking bleak, and Harry had kissed him back and oh, it had been easy after all. 

There had been a war on, of course there had, but there was something about sneaking around the castle with the most famous boy in the country, making him laugh, making him feel good, that made George’s blood sing. 

And then Fred and George had chosen to escape Umbridge’s reign of hell and they had left Harry behind to use their money and their brains to make the country laugh because Merlin, they really needed it, and George doesn’t regret it but he wishes he and Harry had slightly more time.

They have it now, and that’s what they should be focusing on. 

But it’s hard. 

  
  


.

  
  


A lot of information was spilled over the past few hours and George is tired but his body is jumping, unable to stop tapping his fingers along the couch, his legs twisting and untwisting around Harry’s, a spilling over of all his thoughts, learning of souls in snakes and lockets and a prophecy made when he was two. 

“George,” Harry shuffles so he’s straddling George, hands smoothing across George’s sweatshirt. “Thank you. Thanks for listening to me and for believing in me and fuck, thank you for taking this time away from your family for me. I know I haven’t been easy to be with, believe me I wish I could have done more for you and I know you could have been with someone else and it would have been so much smoother --” he breaks off here at George’s argument, gently placing his hand over George’s mouth, “ _ Anyone _ would have been easier and you know it. But you chose me and you love me and I love you and I just -- thank you.” 

George cranes his neck and kisses Harry. “You don’t need to thank me, Harry, but you’re right, I love you. And I’m here. Anyway, who could be better for me than you? Come on, who were you thinking of? Was it Lee? Do you think I should ask him out? Or Flint? Can you imagine?” 

“Shut up,” Harry groans. “I try and be sincere and this is what I get. Go marry Flint for all I care.”

“Jealousy is disgusting on you, Harry. What gives you the right to act like this? Saving the entire world?” because they’ve dealt with the heavy stuff and now they need a bit of light to move them through this. 

  
  


.

  
  


It’s dark and they’re still exhausted but George shoogles Harry’s thigh where it’s pressed against his own and whispers, “Up. C’mon, I want to show you something,” and Harry gets up, follows him through the flat, rubbing at his eyes. 

They crawl out of Fred’s window onto the roof. Diagon Alley is quiet and dark below them and they can hear nothing but the murmurs and bursts of songs from Muggle London, a world where parties and fun never seemed close to ending. 

“This is what we come so close to losing,” Harry says, eyes on the stars. He doesn’t get existential like this, always focusing on the here and now, but now he has his head tipped back and he’s miles and miles away. “They have no idea what it’s taken to get here.”

“Isn’t that the way it should be?”

George feels lighter after today’s talk. They’re only at the beginning of this new world, they have so much to rebuild, so many people to grieve, but George sits back on his elbows, his leg resting against Harry’s, and he knows that somehow good will come out of this. As he keeps reminding himself, they’re alive, and for today isn’t that enough?

“I need to go back. They’ll think I’m hiding away -- I just,” he breaks off, turns to George with a blazing look in his eyes. “-- I need a rest before they want more from me,” and George can tell this is something that’s been playing at the back of his mind all day. 

“We’ll go tomorrow. Or the next day. Everything will still be there.”

“Teddy --”

“Will be there after you’ve slept and had some time away from everyone.”

He nods, turns back to the stars. “You need sleep too. I didn’t do everything,” and yeah, that’s true, George’s body is aching and tired and his head keeps buzzing but he didn’t  _ die _ . “I need to look after you too, you know,” his hand finding George’s again. 

George drops his head onto Harry’s shoulder, closes his eyes, and listens to the steady beat from the Muggle clubs below.

  
  
  


.

  
  
  


After crawling back through the window and falling into George’s bed, Harry reaches for George, kisses him, his breathing quick, hands everywhere, and George falls deep. He rolls to cover Harry’s body with his own, bracketing his head with his arms, and kisses him, the flicker of worry that it’s too soon for things like this extinguished by the intensity of their skin and the memory of months and months without anything close. His world narrows to pulling Harry closer and closer to the edge, lets himself go, and then he’s gasping into Harry’s mouth and he knows he keeps saying this, needs this reminder, but he’s so fucking glad they made it through. 

Harry’s hand is warm on his chest, pressed flat against George’s heart, and he knows that he’s focusing on the heartbeat, that he’s thinking all the same things as George. He tugs at Harry until he’s straddling him again and kisses him, i love yous falling into the space between them over and over and over. 

  
  


.

  
  


Tomorrow there’ll be people to see, people to  _ meet _ , funerals to plan and celebrations to attend. It’s going to be emotional and overwhelming and there’ll be no pausing, no turning back, so for just now they curl around each other in the dark warm flat and they sleep. 

  
  
  



End file.
